flowers that once Griselda prized, But plucked not. She, poor wench, from moon to moon Waxed pale and paler: of no known disease, The village-leech averred, with lips pursed out And cane at chin; some inward fire, he thought, Consumed. A dark inexplicable blight Had touched her, thinned her, till of that sweet earth Scarce more was left than would have served to grow A lily. Later, at a fresh-turned grave, From out the maiden strewments, as it were, A whisper rose, of most pathetic breath, Of how one maid had been by two men loved—      No names, God's mercy!—and that neither man Would wed her: why?—conjecture faltered there,      For whiter was she than new-drifted snow, Or bleached lamb's wool, or any purest thing, Such stuff in sooth as Heaven shapes angels of; And how from their warm, comfortable beds These two men wandered out into the night, Sore stricken and distempered in their mind, And being by Satan blinded and urged on Did fling them headlong from a certain crag That up Clovelly way o'erhangs the sea—      O'erhangs the sea to tempt unhappy folk. From door to door the piteous legend passed, And like a thrifty beggar took from each. And when the long autumnal season came To that bleak, bitter coast, and when at night The deep was shaken, and the pent cloud broke Crashing among the lurid hills of heaven, And in brief sudden swoonings of the gale Contentious voices rose from the sand-dunes, Then to low sobs and murmurs died away, The fishwives, with their lean and sallow cheeks Lit by the flickering driftwood's ruddy glow, Drew closer to the crane, and under breath To awestruck maidens told the fearful tale. The red leaf withered and the green leaf grew.      'T was said that once the Queen reached out her hand—      This was at Richmond in her palace there—      And let it rest on Burleigh's velvet sleeve, And spoke—right stately was she in her rouge:      “Prithee, good Master Cecil, tell us now Was 't ever known what ill befell those men, Those Wyndhams? Were they never, never found? Look you, 't will be three years come Michaelmas:      'T were well to have at least the bones of them.      'Fore God, sir! this is something should be seen! When the Armada, which God smote and sunk, Threatened our Realm, our buckler and our shield Were such stout hearts as that young Wyndham was. The elder brother—well, Heaven fashioned him. Our subjects are our subjects, mark you that. Not found, forsooth! Why, then, they should be found!”       Fain had my good Lord Burleigh solved the thing, And smoothed that ominous wrinkle on 

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